


Since We've No Place to Go

by the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: 2020, Christmas, M/M, broken-down bus, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: Alone on a broken-down bus in the middle of a pandemic, Pete doesn’t think his Christmas Day can get much worse. He certainly doesn’t think it’ll get any better. The bus driver changes his mind.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 24
Kudos: 44
Collections: Have Yourself Some Merry Little Peterick 2020





	Since We've No Place to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Good evening and happy holidays, I hope everyone's doing okay in this absolutely revolting car crash of a year. This story is unfortunately set in said car crash year; just as a heads up, Tier 4 in England means the areas with the most severe restrictions. No-one is allowed to visit family or friends, even on Christmas day. It's a whole fun system. 
> 
> I hope maybe this can provide a little bit of comfort, or at least a bit of catharsis for everyone, and hopefully by this time next year, this fic will be completely obsolete. 
> 
> Have as good a time as you can and roll on the New Year! xx

Pete's had some shit years. 1994, when the Wentz family moved house and Pete was rendered friendless. 2000, when he'd asked Beth Skinner out at the turn of the century and she'd laughed in his face. It took eight months for the teasing to die down. 2002, when Jimmy from sociology had called him 'gay', and then _everybody_ called him 'gay', and then it transpired after several months of fraught, miserable wanking that he probably _was_ gay. Real acceptance would take another decade; before he knew it, 2016 had arrived, gutting and hopeless. But, all things considered, Pete can say wholeheartedly that 2020 has been the shittest year of his life.

Like all horror films, it had started slow. January workout plans, staying off booze, first UK case. Desperate Valentine's dates, ill-advised drinking sessions, first recorded death. St. Patrick's day, four thousand cases, two hundred deaths; daily Downing Street briefings, school closures, bog roll shortages, national lockdown. They said it would be over by summer. Then, by autumn. Now it's Christmas Day, and Pete hasn't felt normal in nine and a half months.

What's more, the bus has broken down. The driver is outside, faffing about with the engine, but Pete's been staring at the same patch of deadened undergrowth for three whole songs now and he's pretty sure they won't be going anywhere fast. He turns up his music. It's last year's playlists _,_ because _something_ has to stay the same. Pete can't even face a new album, let alone a new year.

He takes a deep breath and gets a mouthful of food. He's been wearing this mask for six and a half hours, and on every inhale he can smell Christmas dinner with notes of polyurethane. If he ever sees another gravy boat, he'll use it to waterboard the next person who asks him if they really _have_ to wear a face covering when they go to the toilet. Yes, yes they do, same as Pete has to wear one even though he's the only poor sod on this godforsaken bus.

The driver is now staring at the bus from the pavement as if he might be able to summon it back to life with his mind. The doors are open; heat is slowly being drained from the cocoon of Pete's coat. He turns up Nine Inch Nails and hopes Trent Reznor knocks him out him before he dies of hypothermia.

But the progress of his industrial metal-induced coma is halted when the driver clambers back onto the bus and starts to say words that Pete can't hear (because of said industrial metal). He takes out one earbud. "Sorry?"

The driver fiddles with his mask. "Oh - I said, it's probably gonna be another hour before they dispatch another bus. So - if you've got someone you can ring, or..."

Pete thinks of his parents, up in Scotland and probably well into a post-dinner nap by now. Then he thinks of his sister, in Falmouth with her husband and kids. Finally he thinks of Andy, the only school friend he kept in touch with, in his London penthouse paid for by the e-commerce site he set up. Unless the fox that goes through his bins has learned to drive, he's not getting a lift home. "I'll just - wait, then."

An hour. That's an hour of pyjama time he'll waste on this bus; an hour of comfort-eating he'll miss. It's not that he particularly relishes spending Christmas Day alone in his flat, but at least he can be sad in private. Right now, all he can do is curl up in his coat and think about the fact that there's no-one who'll notice he's home late, no-one who'll miss him. If he got through the door and immediately cracked his head on the kitchen counter, it'd be weeks before someone found him. The first person to notice would be his manager.

In the corner of his eye, he can see the driver hovering around. The floor creaks beneath his feet and he's got the volume turned up on his annoying phone keyboard. Creak, tap tap tap. Creak, creak, tap tap tap. It's doing Pete's head in. He glares at the badly painted fence across the road and very quickly wipes the moisture from his eyes. Crying in front of a stranger would be a new low.

"Um - just so you know," the driver starts, waving a chubby finger in Pete's direction, "it - it's probably gonna end up being more than an hour. Not many people working. Everything takes longer."

Pete figures if he stares at his phone, his lashes will mask the tears in his eyes. "'Kay."

"I'm sorry about this," the driver continues, failing to read every single one of the _piss off_ signals Pete's putting out, "I know you wanna get home, and -"

"I get it," Pete spits. The driver's mouth snaps shut.

"Okay," he says. "Well - they're working on it." He even manages a smile; his eyes crease at the corners and his brow softens. It only makes Pete loathe him more. Either he's taking the piss, or he's the kind of bloke who thinks everyone should be grateful for everything at all times. There's children starving in Africa, Pete. There's people on the streets with nothing, Pete. Oh, Pete, you're feeling sad? Here's why that makes you a selfish prick. Pete shoves his earbuds back in and prays the driver gives up.

The music doesn't help. Even looking at the gorgeous, angry sky doesn't help. Pete wonders when beauty started making him so sad. He hits the green button beside the word 'Mum' and lets it ring and ring and ring. By the time he hears the answer machine, his nose is running and his cheeks are warm with tears. His fingers slip on his face as he tries to wipe the moisture away before it soaks into his mask.

"If you want to take it off, it's fine with me," the driver says.

The force of Pete's cringe propels him further into his coat. He scrubs at his eyes with painfully waterproof sleeves and blinks furiously, the tips of his ears burning with shame. Only his mum and his ex have ever seen him cry. Nobody else has every got close enough.

"Seriously, go for it. Otherwise it might get all soggy."

Pete tries a laugh and it comes out as a sob. Taking his mask off is like peeling away a plaster - it reveals an ugly, damp mess, but the air feels fresh, healing. He shoves the snotty fabric in his pocket and breathes deeply.

"Bad day?"

Squeezing the last of the tears from his sore eyes, Pete nods.

"It'll get easier. Once today's over and done with. People will calm down. It always feels way worse when everyone else looks happy."

"God, it does," Pete groans, wiping his snotty hands on his jeans. He must be quite the merry sight.

"What d'you do," the driver asks, folding down a seat opposite Pete and guiding his hefty arse into it. He's a large man, and the seat is too small, so he teeters about until he sets his feet flat on the floor. He looks like every bus driver Pete's ever seen - paunchy, pale and balding. He doesn't talk like one, though. "Have you been working? Or - are you going to see someone? Like, family? Not that I want to know where you're going. Well, I do _know_ where you're going because it said on your ticket, but, it's not like I _want_ to know. Or, I do want to know, but only if you want to tell me."

Pete suddenly regrets taking his mask off, as there's nothing to hide the look of bafflement on his face. "Um. What?"

"Oh," the driver says, dragging his palms over the sides of his thighs. He looks like Pete feels - utterly alien in his own skin. "Sorry, not much chat today, I'm getting it all out at once." He laughs shortly and loudly and then frowns. "I asked where you work, I think."

"Right, yeah," Pete says absently. "A restaurant."

"Ah. And, people weren't filled with Christmas spirit?"

"Fuck, no," Pete snaps. "I can't see my own parents, but I'm allowed to fetch everybody and their grandma another gravy boat. And then it's like, oh, you again, how dare you interrupt with the gravy we asked for. How much gravy can you possibly need, anyway?"

The driver doesn't laugh, which is good, because Pete's not trying to be funny. "People are crap," he tries. He doesn't sound like he says the word 'crap' very often. "And, I don't really like gravy."

"Neither do I," Pete says emphatically. He thought he'd have moved on from it, by now. "I'm not even, like, a supervisor," he sighs, "my boss is younger than me. I'm just a waiter. And now I'm literally not allowed to do anything _but_ be a waiter."

The driver nods. "I'm sorry," he says. "But, yeah, it's like, living but with none of the stuff that makes life alright. It's work and home."

"Exactly," Pete says. He leans back in his seat and exhales slowly. The lump in his throat has gone down. "Exactly. I'm Pete, by the way."

"Oh," the driver smiles. "Hi. I'm Patrick. I'd shake hands but - yeah."

"Yeah," Pete says, huffing a laugh. "Better not."

"And I'm too far for one of those elbow bumps. Although - can't say I'm a huge fan."

"Oh, God, yeah, they're awful," Pete says, shaking his head. "Surely someone, somewhere could've come up with something better than bashing each other's funny bones."

Patrick's eyes crease at the edges. He's got kind eyes, the type that makes Pete want to see what the rest of his face looks like. "Yeah, what's wrong with bowing? We could just," - he dips his head at Pete - "and that's it. No contact required."

"Exactly," Pete says again. If he's not mistaken, he's getting on fairly well with Patrick. His eyes feel less puffy already. "So, uh. When d'you finish?"

Patrick waves a hand. "This is my last route. So, six-ish, at this rate.”

"Shit," Pete sighs. He supposes things could be worse. He could've been driving a bus since seven in the morning. "Crappy end to a crappy year."

Nodding, Patrick fiddles with his mask. It's been working its way up into his eyes since he sat down.

"Take it off, if you like," Pete tells him. "I don't mind. I live alone."

"Oh. Okay, um," Patrick falters, pinching the fabric over his mouth and muffling his voice. "Sorry, I've got stage-fright, now. Is that just me? I mean, you've got nothing to worry about, obviously, 'cause you're, y'know," he waves in the direction of Pete's face in search of an adjective, "obviously. But for a funny-looking bloke like me, it's make-or-break. It's Deal or No Deal, but with noses."

Pete watches him stammer with a little glow of bashful curiosity. He's fascinating, his self-conscious stillness interrupted by little bursts of anxious movement. The fact that Pete is clearly trying to ascertain how fuckable Patrick is can't be helping his nerves.

On glimpsing Patrick's naked face, Pete realises how starved of intimacy he's been. Patrick probably has a nose and a chin, but his mouth, his bow-shaped, pinkish mouth steals the show. Pete watches it stretch into a brief smile, his generous bottom lip slipping underneath a row of straight teeth. "Ta-da," the lips say.

A _wow_ would be creepy. So would any swear word. He can't say _lovely_ because he's not Patrick's mother and _sexy_ would get him thrown off the bus, so he goes with "Cool", leaning so far away from enthusiasm that he strays into mockery. Patrick's mouth gathers itself into a frown.

"Not much to look at, I know," he says, looking towards his cartoonish boots. "The masks are kind of a blessing, in that respect."

"God, no," Pete backtracks, "no, I was only - I didn't wanna seem weird. I'm gay," he adds for no discernible reason whatsoever, "and I didn't want to tell you you're gorgeous, or something. Not that you're not gorgeous. You _are -_ well. Wow. I've made a right mess of this. Let's just - rewind. You're a decent looking guy. And I'm gonna stop talking now."

Against all odds, Patrick doesn't throw anything at him. Instead, Patrick's fair eyebrows pinch together and he lets out what can only be described as a giggle. "I'll take gorgeous any day of the year."

Maybe it's just that it's Christmas, and Pete's been so deprived of hope that he's now hallucinating scenes from _Love, Actually_ , but something seems to slip into place as he watches colour bloom across Patrick's cheeks. Flirting with a bus driver wasn't on Pete's Pandemic Bingo card. He de-slouches his spine and brushes a hand through his hair. His Christmas day just got a little more interesting.

"So, this isn't really any of my business," Patrick starts, and Pete gets ready to tell him that yes, he likes it up the bum and yes, he's so lonely that he'll assume the position right here on this filthy public bus floor, "but did you choose to work Christmas, or is your boss an arse?"

"Oh," Pete says, "yeah. Both, I guess. It's shit, but at the same time, what else would I be doing? Sitting at home by myself? At least if I'm working I'm not totally alone." As soon as it comes out of his mouth, he feels a swell of sadness. Was the highlight of his Christmas really wiping up other people's food?

"Me too," Patrick replies. He suddenly looks exhausted. Pete wonders if he himself looks like that - if everyone who lives through this will bear the same scars. "I had a Zoom call with my kids earlier, but - I mean, what's Christmas morning without a cuddle?"

"You've got kids?" Pete forgets, sometimes, that people his age are doing adult things, like raising real-life humans. He can't see a wedding ring, though - his libido prays for divorce.

Patrick nods. "Two. But they're with their mum in tier four, so..."

"Oh. Wow, I'm sorry," Pete tries, but Patrick just shrugs. It's horrific how quickly the unthinkable has become the usual. Spending Christmas alone is a sad blip on the year-long slope of misery. Patrick's having to downplay his own grief.

They both jump when Patrick's phone rings. Patrick pulls a face and gets to his feet, allowing Pete some time to rethink asking if Patrick's married. Is it polite to ask? Is it really none of his business if he's contemplating hitting on Patrick? He said _their mum,_ not _my wife._ Maybe it's better to ask _after_ they've snogged; that way, Pete can retain the moral high ground. Yeah, snog first, ask questions later. It's never failed him before.

"Alright, yeah. Okay," Patrick mumbles, scuffing his shoe against the floor. Pete's forgotten what it's like to have someone around, someone other than himself. He's lived alone most of his life, and it's never stung like this; for a mass trauma, it's been dreadfully solitary. But watching Patrick bumble around the bus takes Pete's mind off it. Despite everything, he's feeling better.

"We're looking at another forty minutes," Patrick sighs, slotting his phone back into his belt and digging his thumbs into his eyes. "I'm really sorry, Pete."

His name sounds nice when Patrick says it. "Not your fault," Pete replies. "Honestly, this is kind of - fine. Like, it's nice to talk to an actual person. All we need is some snacks and it'd probably be a better time than I'd have at home."

"Oh!" Patrick chirps, diving into the driver's seat. When he returns, he's holding a Tupperware box like a trophy. "Didn't eat my lunch."

Patrick's rations amount to two jam sandwiches, a banana, a bunch of grapes and a Christmas pudding-flavoured snack bar. "Festive," Pete says. "Go ahead, I don't mind."

"Nah, we can share," Patrick says, picking up a wilting, cling-film wrapped sandwich and frowning at it. "If you want to."

It's no Christmas feast, but there's something about the way the bread is squashed, the jam oozing from the edges, marbled with butter, that makes Pete's mouth water. It also doesn't hurt that the person offering it to him has the loveliest blue eyes, now Pete comes to think of it. "I'd love to, actually."

"A Christmas picnic," Patrick grins. "Wait - is sharing food allowed?"

Pete snorts. "God, I don't know. The rules change every hour. Boris probably banned it at some point."

"But, this is a survival situation, right? You could starve, if I don't give you this sandwich."

"That's exactly true," Pete nods sagely, "right now, starvation is a bigger threat than Covid." He scoops the sandwich out of the box and enjoys the way the bread squidges between his fingers. "Thanks."

Pete's lips are sweet with jam by the time the last corners of crust are gone. He marches through the banana as penance and Patrick picks at the grapes, then breaks the snack bar in half. It really does taste like Christmas pudding. Around a mouthful of sultanas, Pete blurts, "Why aren't you with your kids?"

He regrets it as soon as he sees Patrick's face fall. "Sorry, it's none of my business," he adds. "I shouldn't have asked."

Patrick shrugs heavily. "Nah, it's a valid question. Their mum and I divorced about a year ago. Nothing horrible, just - we kind of rushed into things and then woke up one day with two kids and no real feelings for each other, so. Then, all of this happened, and my youngest has asthma, so...I dunno. Maybe we're being overly cautious, but he's never been the most robust kid, y'know, and with my job, I just couldn't risk it. If anything happened to him I dunno what I'd do."

"God," Pete breathes, "I'm sorry. Poor lad."

"Yeah," Patrick nods. "Honestly, it was the worst timing. I would've looked for another job if I'd have known. I've seen them maybe, six times? In nine months?"

Pete doesn't know what to say. It's not fair. Nothing about any of it is fair. He has trouble, sometimes, believing it's all real. "I'm so sorry."

This time, Patrick doesn't even try to fake a smile. "I miss them. Like, _so_ much. More than I thought was possible."

There's barely any hope to offer. Patrick may not see his kids for another three months, maybe longer. Each time Pete dares to dream beyond this, the phrase _new variant_ cuts him down to size. Things might be just the same, this time next year. Pete decides to shift the subject. "Uh - do you have any photos of them?"

"Oh," Patrick bleats, his earnest smile returning, "yeah, um. Wait." He grabs for his phone and flicks through it, his face suddenly lighting with pride. "This one's cute."

Pete thinks about faking it when Patrick's dim, too-small phone screen shows him a vaguely child-shaped blob. Even when Pete squints, he can't see a thing. What he can see, however, is an opportunity.

"You might have to come a bit closer," Pete says, grabbing his rucksack from the seat next to him. "I can't see anything from here."

Patrick's eyes track to the space beside Pete. "We'd be breaking the metre rule," he says, "but I guess we've already shared food."

"I promise not to breathe on you," Pete replies, "and if anyone asks, we're brothers."

"Or boyfriends," Patrick says, and Pete feels his own heart swell, Grinch-style. Patrick's thought about them as boyfriends. Now he's made Pete think about them as boyfriends. He grins at Pete as he shuffles across the wheelchair space; Pete has a funny, fuzzy feeling that Patrick knows exactly what he's doing.

When Patrick sits down, they're touching, hip to shoulder. Pete's not a tactile person, but he leans into it. He's missed this.

"His name's Sammy," Patrick says, showing Pete a photo of a small, round boy holding a tiny, fluffy dog. "The boy, not the dog. And, this is my daughter Daisy," he continues, swiping to a picture of an older kid with bright blonde bunches and a big smile.

Patrick likes talking about his kids. He tells Pete all about the kid-sized electric keyboard they got Daisy for Christmas, and how Sam's already beginning to scribble letters of the alphabet, and how they used to play a game called Dad Hunt which has a long and complex set of rules but generally seems to involve chasing Patrick around the house until he's red in the face. They haven't played it since February. Patrick has lots of photos of the family, and in each one, he looks happy.

"You'll see them soon," Pete says, watching Patrick's sad eyes as he stares at his phone. Then, in a leap of faith, he touches Patrick's wrist. "You will."

Patrick looks at Pete's fingers, then at Pete's face. "I really hope so," he says quietly. "We call every other day, and we've done, like, distanced walks and stuff, but..."

"It's not the same," Pete supplies. He didn't necessarily _love_ hugging his siblings, but it'd be nice to have the option.

"No. No, it's not. Haven't given them a cuddle in six months."

Pete squeezes Patrick's wrist a little tighter as he watches Patrick's eyes fill and his mouth falter. "Hey," Pete tries, "things will change. They have to."

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve and blinking rapidly. "I don't usually blub in front of people I just met."

"You're talking to a bloke who sobbed at you for fifteen minutes, don't worry about it," Pete grins. "Bloody Christmas, that's what it is."

"Bloody Christmas," Patrick sniffs.

"The shittest time to be having a shit time."

"God, you're right," Patrick nods. He hasn't taken Pete's hand, yet, but he hasn't shaken it off either. Pete decides to leave it where it is.

"So, what are you gonna do when it's all over?" Pete asks.

Patrick lets out a slow breath. "I'm gonna take a whole month off with the kids. I've got a list of stuff to do with them, so I don't forget. It's just silly things, baking and crafts and stuff, but I dunno. I want to make sure I'm not just some guy who pops up on the iPad every so often. I want to feel like a dad again."

"You'll always be a dad," Pete says. "Even if you don't feel like it."

"Yeah. I guess it's difficult to even feel human right now," Patrick laughs. "What about you?"

"No idea, really," Pete sighs. "Quit my job, I think. Maybe travel. Get out there a bit, y'know? I haven't had a date in like - too long. And that's not even the pandemic, that's just me being a loser."

"You're not a loser." Finally, Patrick's hand shifts to clasp Pete's fingers. "And - I mean, if you want a date, um. Well." He's looking at Pete, face illuminated by the fluorescent lights of the bus. He's not Pete's type at all; for a start, he actually seems like a decent, caring guy. But, it's been one year and three months since Pete kissed anyone, and since some higher power has chosen to place Patrick - wide-eyed, pink-lipped Patrick - he thinks he's probably obligated to peck him on the mouth.

Unfortunately, after the second it takes for Pete to lean and touch his lips to Patrick's, Pete remembers that exchanging saliva is highly discouraged nowadays, and swiftly begins to panic. "Shit," he says into Patrick's face. "I'm so sorry, I literally completely forgot about the virus and I just - I dunno -"

"It's okay," Patrick says. His teeth dart over his bottom lip as he breathes a smile. "It's - it's totally okay, we've already got this close so - maybe it's alright?"

"Yeah, and - I've got no-one at home. I won't see any friends or family. It's probably alright," Pete nods, even though they both seem to know that it's not, in fact, alright at all. But ten days of isolation in exchange for another kiss sounds like a pretty good trade-off. "I mean - if you don't mind, I don't mind."

Patrick's lips flutter with half-words and his head twitches closer. Pete doesn't remember his first kiss, but in teenage fantasies it might've gone a little like this. Their cold noses bump and their lips touch, unsure, and Pete wonders why it feels so strange, if he's forgotten how to do it, until he feels Patrick's hand on his chest and kissing becomes second nature. He knows how to kiss someone, how to hold someone, and he decides to prove it by cupping Patrick's chin, stroking his chest, by opening his mouth and letting their tongues touch. Pete hadn't realised how much he'd missed it.

They part when Patrick grins and their teeth clack; his fingers graze Pete's neck and Pete's spine tingles. Patrick's uniform jumper is coarse beneath Pete's hand, but it reeks of comfort, of safety. Patrick's so gloriously _normal,_ sitting there in his blue shirt and blue jumper with a belly and a stubbled chin. Pete feels as if he needs some sanity right now.

But as much as he likes kissing, there's something he's missed much more over the past nine months.

"This might sound a bit weird," Pete says, "but - d'you want to hug?"

Patrick laughs, and then seems to realise that Pete's serious. He nods quickly and tugs at the lapels of Pete's coat, gathering Pete in his arms and squeezing tight. Pete slides his arms around Patrick's broad chest and shuts his eyes. Patrick smells of buses, and standard-issue uniforms, and a faint whiff of faded Christmas cologne. For a moment, he escapes from the world where this isn't allowed.

Even as they emerge, Pete's hand stays fastened to Patrick's soft waist. "I think I needed that," Patrick says. "'M kind of glad we broke down."

"Me too," Pete replies. He'd forgotten he was going anywhere at all.

"And," Patrick starts, the tension returning to his shoulders, "I was wondering if you had plans later?

"No," Pete says quickly. He can't believe he didn't think of it himself. "Come over."

Patrick laughs. "Okay. Yeah, alright. D'you want my -"

"Phone number? Yeah," Pete supplies, "I'll text you my address, I don't have much Christmas food, or any games, or -"

"Doesn't matter," Patrick says, clicking through his phone, "here. Pop your number in and I'll message you."

"Okay," Pete says, a little giddy with excitement as he types, the blips of Patrick’s keyboard making him grin. He's so wrapped up in the magic of it all that when headlamps flash in the wing mirror, Pete wonders why Patrick's putting his mask back on.

"I'll text you," Patrick reassures as the relief bus pulls up behind them. Pete's own mask smells even worse than it did an hour ago - still, he clamps it over his face and mourns the loss of Patrick's warmth as Patrick stands and packs away the remains of their lunch.

When Patrick opens the doors for a man in a hi-vis jacket, cold air rushes in and Pete feels as though he's woken up from some wonderful dream.

"The other bus will take you home," Patrick tells him, as if nothing ever happened, "thanks for waiting. And, um. Merry Christmas."

"You too," Pete replies. "Safe trip home." And just like that, it’s over.

Pete nearly retreats to the back of the bus and buries himself in his coat, but the new driver - an older lady wearing a Santa hat - introduces herself as Mavis, and Pete figures that talking to strangers didn’t work out so badly for him last time, so he hovers by the driver’s seat as they trundle down country lanes. He finds out she beat both her grandsons at Mario Kart earlier today, and set up a four-family Zoom call on her TV. There's enjoyment to be had, Pete's realising, it's just a little harder to find these days. Pete decides he's prepared to look for it.

So he doesn't worry too much about whether Patrick likes him, whether his acceptance was begrudging, whether he's taking pity on Pete. He trusts in the grin on Patrick's face after they kissed, the smiley emojis at the end of Patrick's texts. He tidies his living room and combs his hair and puts the oven on just in case Patrick's tempted by the chocolate puddings in Pete's freezer. For once, when the intercom buzzes, it's not Amazon or Deliveroo.

Patrick's dressed in the ugliest Christmas jumper Pete's ever seen when he opens his front door. He holds a bottle of wine and a box of cheese and crackers. Pete grins widely. It may still be the worst year of Pete’s life, but he’s made it this far. For now, he’s content with small victories, like the warmth of Patrick’s shoulders as Pete takes his coat, the kiss Patrick presses to his cheek. For now, he’s doing alright.


End file.
